"if you think childlike, you'll stay young. If you keep your energy going, and do everything with a little flair, you're gunna stay young. But most people do things without energy, and they atrophy their mind as well as their body. you have to think young, you have to laugh a lot, and you have to have good feelings for everyone in the world, because if you don't, it's going to come inside, your own poison, and it's over" Jerry Lewis
"I don’t believe
in the irreversibility of situations" Deleuze

Note on Citations

The numerical citations refer to page number. The source's text-space (including footnote region) is divided into four equal portions, a, b, c, d. If the citation is found in one such section, then for example it would be cited p.15c. If the cited text lies at a boundary, then it would be for example p.16cd. If it spans from one section to another, it is rendered either for example p.15a.d or p.15a-d. If it goes from a 'd' section and/or arrives at an 'a' section, the letters are omitted: p.15-16.

[The following is summary. Bracketed commentary and boldface in quotations are my own additions. Paragraph enumerations are my own, but they follow the paragraph divisions of the German text. Proofreading is incomplete, so you will encounter typos and other distracting and problematic errors, including such things as inaccurate page citations for example. So please trust the original sources over my summarization and citation. Notes on Deleuze’s commentary is given in this shade of red.]

Summary of

Friedrich Nietzsche

Die Geburt der Tragödie

The Birth of Tragedy

L’origine de la tragédie

Section

2

[The Greek people as expressers of the Apolline and Dionysiac artistic forces of nature. Music and dance as Dionysiac.]

Brief summary:

The Dionysiac and the Apolline are artistic powers of nature. They come together in Greek tragedy, where the tragic character’s intoxicated reunion with the primordial unity is dramatically enacted while also intelligibly stated by the chorus. In Ancient Greece, there was a time when there was just the Apolline tendency, which caused the Greeks to become unaware of the deeper and more originary primordial unity. Regarding the Apollonian dream component of Greek art, we note that the Greek’s vision had a plastic power, and the Greeks delighted in color. Thus their dreams also had a logic of line, contour, color, grouping, and sequence (like the scenes of a bas-relief). Then at some point in history, the Dionysian mode of intoxicated worship spread throughout Greece. The Dionysiac tendency uses the power of music to break down the sense of distinction between oneself and other things or people and to return to the primordial unity. The Dionysiac sentiment is often dual, being an expression both of pain and of pleasure.

Brief summary of Deleuze’s commentary:

[See both points of commentary ({1} intoxication and {2} primordial unity) from section 1. They hold as well for this section.]

{3} Nietzsche’s philosophy saw a development. It begins with quasi-dialectical oppositions, like that “between primitive unity and individuation” / “de l’unité primitive et de l’individuation” (Deleuze NP, 1962: 11 / 2006: 13). This particular opposition involves {A} an initial “good” state of primordial unity that gives way to {B} an artificial “bad” state where one is separated from that unity through the individuating powers of the Apolline artistic tendency, and it is then restored to {C} a “good” state of renewed primordial unity through the Dionysian artistic tendency. As such, in this early conception, Nietzsche construes the world as if the way it is given is somehow blameworthy. “Life needs to be justified, that is to say redeemed from suffering and contradiction. The Birth of Tragedy is developed in the shadow of the Christian dialectic; justification, redemption and reconciliation” (Deleuze NP, 1962: 11 / 2006: 13). Later Nietzsche will move past dialectical oppositions and emphasize the role of the affirmation of life rather than its judgment and condemnation.

{4} But already in The Birth of Tragedy, we see the beginnings of this development in the role of pain. The Dionysiac, although it involves a return to a primordial unity, also involves a pain that is not resolved into a higher and suprapersonal pleasure but is rather felt distinctly by the individual herself. This is perhaps a way that Dionysus distributes himself into the multiplicity of people entering the Dionysiac state, rather than him resolving into a unity (the primordial unity). Also, perhaps the pain that is felt in this state should be seen not as the suffering of individuation but rather as the pain of growth of the individual who is transforming herself through the ecstatic state; and, as a transformative factor of growth, this pain is affirmative of life:

But even in the Birth of Tragedy a thousand | pointers make us sense the approach of a new conception which has little to do with this schema. From the outset Dionysus is insistently presented as the affirmative and affirming god. He is not content with “resolving” pain in a higher and supra personal pleasure but rather he affirms it and turns it into someone's pleasure. This is why Dionysus is himself transformed in multiple affirmations, rather than being dissolved in original being or reabsorbing multiplicity into primeval depths. He affirms the pains of growth rather than reproducing the sufferings of individuation. He is the god who affirms life, for whom life must be affirmed, but not justified or redeemed.

[The Dionysian and the Apolline come together in Greek tragedy, where the tragic character’s intoxicated reunion with the primordial unity is dramatically enacted while also intelligibly stated by the chorus.]

Nietzsche recalls some of the important ideas from section 1. Two artistic powers “erupt from nature itself”, the Apolline and the Dionysiac. Nietzsche says they erupt “without the mediation of any human artist”. [I am not certain what is meant by that. I suppose the idea is that nature speaks through the artists, and thus they are like drives expressing themselves through the artists. See section 1.1.] Nietzsche says that nature herself has artistic drives, and they attain their first, immediate satisfaction in these two artistic powers. By means of the Apolline, nature attains satisfaction of its artistic drives through their expression in the image-world of dream. [Nietzsche says that the perfection of this world “is not linked to an individual’s intellectual level or artistic formation (Bildung)”, but I am not sure what he means. I will guess that the idea is the following. This realm of dreams contains intelligible forms. They should be considered as clear and complete in themselves, even if the artist or her cultural practices are unprepared to discern those forms in their completeness.] And through the Dionysiac, nature attains satisfaction of its artistic drives through their expression in “intoxicated reality”. [Deleuze commentary: seesection 1forcomments on intoxication.]The Dionysiac has no regard for the individual [as something distinct from other things], because it seeks to “annihilate, redeem, and release him by imparting a mystical sense of oneness”. [Note here the notion of redemption. Deleuze commentary. Deleuze says that in BT, Nietzsche sets up certain dialectic-like oppositions, including that “between primitive unity and individuation” / “de l’unité primitive et de l’individuation” (Deleuze NP, 1962: 11 / 2006: 13). It is indicative of a view that life is somehow incomplete or wrong. In this case, Nietzsche establishes a primitive unity that is the good state: it was “wrong” to veer away from it, and it would be better were we to return to it. “Life needs to be justified, that is to say redeemed from suffering and contradiction. The Birth of Tragedy is developed in the shadow of the Christian dialectic; justification, redemption and reconciliation” (Deleuze NP, 1962: 11 / 2006: 13). Deleuze makes this point because he shows how Nietzsche’s philosophy later develops the idea of affirming life and not judging it as inadequate or wrong.] [I may not get the next ideas right, so please consult the quotation below. Nietzsche says that these are unmediated artistic states in nature. But they are expressed still through the direct artistic behavior of the artist, perhaps in states of artistic inspiration or original creation, but I am not sure. Thus the artist when expressing the unmediated artistic states of nature is simply imitating either Apollo by being a dream-artist or Dionysus as being an artist of intoxication. (Recall from section 1.1 that the two competing artistic tendencies ultimately come together in Attic tragedy.) In Greek tragedy, one can be (or imitate) an artist of both dream and intoxication at the same time. (I am especially guessing at the next point. Let us think of a specific situation: the scene in Sophocle’s Oedipus Rex when Oedipus emerges freshly blinded. He says at one point:

OEDIPUS: Oh, Ohh–

the agony! I am agony–

where am I going? where on earth?

where does all this agony hurl me?

where’s my voice?–

winging, swept away on a dark tide–

My destiny, my dark power, what a leap you made!

CHORUS: To the depths of terror, too dark to hear, to see.

OEDIPUS: Dark, horror of darkness

my darkness, drowning, swirling around me

Crashing wave on wave – unspeakable, irresistible

headwind, fatal harbor! Oh again,

the misery, all at once, over and over

the stabbing daggers, stab of memory

raking me insane.

CHORUS: No wonder you suffer |

twice over, the pain of your wounds,

the lasting grief of pain.

(351-352)

Here we might imagine the actor playing Oedipus in a passionate state where it might seem like his world and he himself are completely coming apart. It could thus be that “he sinks to the ground in Dionysiac drunkenness and mystical self-abandon”. The Chorus, however, retains the Apolline “wise calm” (see section 1.4) and reveals Oedipus’ oneness with the primordial unity but by using the clear imagery of the Apolline: “the enthusiastic choruses, at which point, under the Apolline influence of dream, his own condition, which is to say, his oneness with the innermost ground of the world, reveals itself to him ina symbolic (gleichnishaft) dream-image.” So I am not sure, but the idea might be that the Dionysian and Apolline can come together in these interactions of tragic characters and chorus.]

So far we have considered the Apolline and its opposite, the Dionysiac, as artistic powers which erupt from nature itself, without the mediation of any human artist, and in which nature’s artistic drives attain their first, immediate satisfaction: on the one hand as the image-world of dream, the perfection of which is not linked to an individual’s intellectual level or artistic formation (Bildung); and on the other hand as intoxicated reality, which has just as little regard for the individual, even seeking to annihilate, redeem, and release him by imparting a mystical sense of oneness. In relation to these unmediated artistic states in nature every artist is an ‘imitator’, and indeed either an Apolline dream-artist or a Dionysiac artist of intoxication or finally – as, for example, in Greek tragedy – an artist of both dream and intoxication at once. This is how we must think of him as he sinks to the ground in Dionysiac drunkenness and mystical self-abandon, alone and apart from the enthusiastic choruses, at which point, under the Apolline influence of dream, his own condition, which is to say, his oneness with the innermost ground of the world, reveals itself to him ina symbolic (gleichnishaft) dream-image.

(Speirs 19)

Thus far we have considered the Apollinian and its opposite, the Dionysian, as artistic energies which burst forth from nature herself, without the mediation of the human artist—energies in which nature’s art impulses are satisfied in the most immediate and direct way—first in the image world of dreams, whose completeness is not dependent upon the intellectual attitude or the artistic culture of any single being; and then as intoxicated reality, which likewise does not heed the single unit, but even seeks to destroy the individual and redeem him by a mystic feeling of oneness. With reference to these immediate art-states of nature, every artist is an “imitator,” that is to say, either an Apollinian artist in dreams, or a Dionysian artist in ecstasies, or finally—as for example in Greek tragedy—at once artist in both dreams and ecstasies; so we may perhaps picture him sinking down in his Dionysian intoxication and mystical self-abnegation, alone and apart from the singing revelers, and we may imagine how, through Apollinian dream-inspiration, his own state, i.e., his oneness with the inmost ground of the world, is revealed to him in a symbolical dream image.

Thus far we have considered the Apollonian and his antithesis, the Dionysian, as artistic powers, which burst forth from nature herself, without the mediation of the human artist, and in which her art-impulses are satisfied in the most immediate and direct way: first, as the pictorial world of dreams, the perfection of which has no connection whatever with the intellectual height or artistic culture of the unit man, and again, as drunken reality, which likewise does not heed the unit man, but even seeks to destroy the individual and redeem him by a mystic feeling of Oneness. Anent these immediate art-states of nature every artist is either an “imitator,” to wit, either an Apollonian, an artist in dreams, or a Dionysian, an artist in ecstasies, or finally—as for instance in Greek tragedy—an artist in both dreams and ecstasies: so we may perhaps picture him, as in his Dionysian drunkenness and mystical self-abnegation, lonesome and apart from the revelling choruses, he sinks down, and how now, through Apollonian dream-inspiration, his own state, i.e., | his oneness with the primal source of the universe, reveals itself to him in a symbolical dream-picture.

[The Greeks expressed the artistic drives of nature. In terms of the dream component, their vision had a plastic power, and they delighted in color. Thus their dreams also had a logic of line, contour, color, grouping, and sequence (of scenes).]

Nietzsche will now evaluate “the degree and level to which those artistic drives of nature were developed in” the Greeks. [The next idea might be that nature or its artistic forces are the models for artistic creation, and the artist as we said above is an imitator of these forces. By examining the degree and level to which the artistic drives of nature were developed in the Greeks, we will see how it is that they modeled themselves off of these sources.] Nietzsche will begin by examining the nature of Greek dreaming. He says that they were especially able to see things in a plastic way. [I am not sure what that means. Maybe the Greeks were able to see things as they are while at the same time imagining how those things can be reformed, like seeing a large block of marble and envisioning the statues that could be carved from it.] They also had a “pure and honest delight in color”. From these facts we might infer that “their dreams, too, had that logical causality of line and outline, colour and grouping, and a sequence of scenes resembling their best bas-reliefs”. [But I am not sure what is meant by logical causality here.]

Having set out these general assumptions and contrasts, let us now consider the Greeks in order to understand the degree and level to which those artistic drives of nature were developed in them. This will enable us to gain a deeper understanding and appreciation of the relationship between the Greek artist and his models (Urbilder), or, to use Aristotle’s expression, ‘the imitation of nature’. Despite all the dream literature of the Greeks and numerous dream anecdotes, we can speak only speculatively, but with a fair degree of certainty, about the Greeks’ dreams. Given the incredibly definite and assured ability of their eye to see things in a plastic way, together with their pure and honest delight in colour, one is bound to assume, to the shame of all those born after them, that their dreams, too, had that logical causality of line and outline, colour and grouping, and a sequence of scenes resembling their best bas-reliefs, so that the perfection | of their dreams would certainly justify us, if comparison were possible, in describing the dreaming Greeks as Homers and Homer as a dreaming Greek - and in a more profound sense than if a modern dared were to compare his dreaming with that of Shakespeare.

(Speirs 19-20)

So much for these general premises and contrasts. Let us now approach the Greeks in order to learn how highly these art impulses of nature were developed in them. Thus we shall be in a position to understand and appreciate more deeply that relation of the Greek artist to his archetypes which is, according to the Aristotelian expression, “the imitation of nature.” In spite of all the dream literature and the numerous dream anecdotes of the Greeks, we can speak of their dreams only conjecturally, though with reasonable assurance. If we consider the incredibly precise and unerring plastic power of their eyes, together with their vivid, frank delight in colors, we can hardly refrain from assuming even for their dreams (to the shame of all those born later) a certain logic of line and contour, colors and groups, a certain pictorial sequence reminding us of their finest bas-reliefs whose perfection would cer- | tainly justify us, if a comparison were possible, in designating the dreaming Greeks as Homers and Homer as a dreaming Greek—in a deeper sense than that in which modern man, speaking of his dreams, ventures to compare himself with Shakespeare.

After these general premisings and contrastings, let us now approach the Greeks in order to learn in what degree and to what height these art-impulses of nature were developed in them: whereby we shall be enabled to understand and appreciate more deeply the relation of the Greek artist to his archetypes, or, according to the Aristotelian expression, “the imitation of nature.” In spite of all the dream-literature and the numerous dream-anecdotes of the Greeks, we can speak only conjecturally, though with a fair degree of certainty, of their dreams. Considering the incredibly precise and unerring plastic power of their eyes, as also their manifest and sincere delight in colours, we can hardly refrain (to the shame of every one born later) from assuming for their very dreams a logical causality of lines and contours, colours and groups, a sequence of scenes resembling their best reliefs, the perfection of which would certainly justify us, if a comparison were possible, in designating the dreaming Greeks as Homers and Homer as a dreaming Greek: in a deeper sense than when modern man, in respect to his dreams, ventures to compare himself with Shakespeare.

[In Ancient Greece, there was a time when there was just the Apolline tendency, which caused the Greeks to become unaware of the deeper primordial unity. Then the Dionysian mode of intoxicated worship spread throughout Greece. The Dionysiac uses the power of music to break down the sense of distinction between oneself and other things or people and to return to the primordial unity. The Dionysiac sentiment is often dual: both an expression of pain and pleasure.]

Nietzsche next distinguishes the Dionysiac Greeks from the Dionysiac Barbarians. [I am not sure about this distinction. Perhaps the Dionysiac Barbarians are not any specific group but rather any group whatsoever that gives into decadent urges without that being an expression of nature’s artistic forces. Or maybe the distinction is that the Dionysiac Barbarians existed outside Greece and then “invaded” culturally speaking, thereby creating the Dionysiac Greeks. But I am just guessing on this first point. Nietzsche then says that the Greeks were protected from (Barbaric) Dionysiacism by their attention to the Apolline: “the Greeks appear, for a time, to have been completely protected and insulated from their feverish stirrings by the figure of Apollo, who reared up in all his pride”. And also, “Apollo’s attitude of majestic rejection is eternalized in Doric art”. I do not follow the next point. It seems perhaps to speak historically of the importation of the Dionysiac religion into Greek culture. The next point might be that this manifestation of Dionysian celebration and worship was of the artistic kind we have been discussing, where the artist loses the principle of individuation and renews the primordial unity. (Deleuze commentary. Seesection 1forcomments on the primordial unity / individuation opposition.) There is also a “strange mixture and duality in the affects of the Dionysiac enthusiast” where “pain awakens pleasure while rejoicing wrings cries of agony from the breast. From highest joy there comes a cry of horror or a yearning lament at some irredeemable loss”. (Deleuze commentary. We said in the Deleuze commentary notes above that there is a development in Nietzsche’s philosophy that moves away from dialectical oppositions and away from a condemnation of life. (It moves instead toward multiplicity and affirmation.) Deleuze sees the beginnings of this development already in the Dionysiac of BT.

But even in the Birth of Tragedy a thousand | pointers make us sense the approach of a new conception which has little to do with this schema. From the outset Dionysus is insistently presented as the affirmative and affirming god. He is not content with “resolving” pain in a higher and supra personal pleasure but rather he affirms it and turns it into someone's pleasure. This is why Dionysus is himself transformed in multiple affirmations, rather than being dissolved in original being or reabsorbing multiplicity into primeval depths. He affirms the pains of growth rather than reproducing the sufferings of individuation. He is the god who affirms life, for whom life must be affirmed, but not justified or redeemed.

It is probably too early to completely see how this works, but at this point we can note that the Dionysiac, although it involves a return to a primordial unity, also involves a pain that is not resolved into a higher and suprapersonal pleasure but is rather felt distinctly by the individual herself. This is perhaps a way that Dionysus distributes himself into the multiplicity of people entering the Dionysiac state, rather than him resolving into a unity (the primordial unity). Also, perhaps the pain that is felt in this state should be seen not as the suffering of individuation but rather as the pain of growth of the individual who is transforming herself through the ecstatic state; and, as a transformative factor of growth, this pain is affirmative of life.) Nietzsche next might be saying that this “two-fold mood” was new to the Greeks, and it was at least in part evoked by Dionysiac music, which “elicited terror and horror”. Nietzsche then seems to distinguish Apolline music from the Dionysiac. Apolline music in a sense takes us away from the real power of music, which is Dionysiac: “It keeps at a distance, as something un-Apolline, the very element which defines the character of Dionysiac music (and thus of music generally): the power of its sound to shake us to our very foundations”. (Next: “In the Dionysiac dithyramb man is stimulated to the highest intensification of his symbolic powers; something that he has never felt before urgently demands to be expressed: the destruction of the veil of maya, one-ness as the genius of humankind, indeed of nature itself.” As I understand, the primordial unity is the maya; it has been veiled over by the principle of individuation; and the Dionysiac aims to destroy that veil to return us to the primordial unity.) Nature needs to express itself symbolically through the full body in dance. The Apolline Greeks before the Dionysiac inclusion had veiled this primordial unity from their awareness, and when it was performed to their observation, they must have been astonished by the power of what went ignored.]

By contrast, there is no need for speculation when it comes to revealing the vast gulf which separated the Dionysiac Greeks from the Dionysiac Barbarians. From all corners of the ancient world (leaving aside the modern one in this instance), from Rome to Babylon, we can demonstrate the existence of Dionysiac festivals of a type which, at best, stands in the same relation to the Greek festivals as the bearded satyr, whose name and attributes were borrowed from the goat, stands to Dionysos himself. Almost everywhere an excess of sexual indiscipline, which flooded in waves over all family life and its venerable statutes, lay at the heart of such festivals. Here the very wildest of nature’s beasts were unleashed, up to and including that repulsive mixture of sensuality and cruelty which has always struck me as the true ‘witches’ brew’. Although news of these festivals reached them by every sea- and land-route, the Greeks appear, for a time, to have been completely protected and insulated from their feverish stirrings by the figure of Apollo, who reared up in all his pride, there being no more dangerous power for him to confront with the Medusa’s head than this crude, grotesque manifestation of the Dionysiac. Apollo’s attitude of majestic rejection is eternalized in Doric art. Such resistance became more problematic and even impossible when, eventually, similar shoots sprang from the deepest root of the Hellenic character; now the work of the Delphic God was limited to taking the weapons of destruction out of the hands of his mighty opponent in a timely act of reconciliation. This reconciliation is the most important moment in the history of Greek religion; wherever one looks, one can see the revolutionary consequences of this event. It was the reconciliation of two opponents, with a precise delineation of the borders which each now had to respect and with the periodic exchange of honorific gifts; fundamentally the chasm had not been bridged. Yet if we now look at how the power of the Dionysiac manifested itself under pressure from that peace-treaty, we can see that, in contrast to the Babylonian Sacaea, where human beings regressed to the condition of tigers and monkeys, the significance of the Greeks’ Dionysiac orgies was that of festivals of universal release and redemption and days of transfiguration. Here for the first time the jubilation of nature achieves expression as art, here for the first time the tearing-apart of the principium | individuationis becomes an artistic phenomenon. That repulsive witches’ brew of sensuality and cruelty was powerless here; the only reminder of it (in the way that medicines recall deadly poisons) is to be found in the strange mixture and duality in the affects of the Dionysiac enthusiasts, that phenomenon whereby pain awakens pleasure while rejoicing wrings cries of agony from the breast. From highest joy there comes a cry of horror or a yearning lament at some irredeemable loss. In those Greek festivals there erupts what one might call a sentimental tendency in nature, as if it had cause to sigh over its dismemberment into individuals. The singing and expressive gestures of such enthusiasts in their two-fold mood was something new and unheard-of in the Homeric-Greek world; Dionysiac music in particular elicited terror and horror from them. Although it seems that music was already familiar to the Greeks as an Apolline art, they only knew it, strictly speaking, in the form of a wave-like rhythm with an image-making power which they developed to represent Apolline states. The music of Apollo was Doric architectonics in sound, but only in the kind of hinted-at tones characteristic of the cithara. It keeps at a distance, as something un-Apolline, the very element which defines the character of Dionysiac music (and thus of music generally): the power of its sound to shake us to our very foundations, the unified stream of melody and the quite incomparable world of harmony. In the Dionysiac dithyramb man is stimulated to the highest intensification of his symbolic powers; something that he has never felt before urgently demands to be expressed: the destruction of the veil of maya, one-ness as the genius of humankind, indeed of nature itself. The essence of nature is bent on expressing itself; a new world of symbols is required, firstly the symbolism of the entire body, not just of the mouth, the face, the word, but the full gesture of dance with its rhythmical movement of every limb. Then there is a sudden, tempestuous growth in music’s other symbolic powers, in rhythm, dynamics, and harmony. To comprehend this complete unchaining of all symbolic powers, a man must already have reached that height of self-abandonment which seeks symbolic expression in those powers: thus the dithyrambic servant of Dionysos can only be understood by his own kind! With what astonishment the Apolline Greeks must have regarded him! With an astonishment enlarged by the added horror of realizing that all this was not so foreign to them after all, indeed that their Apolline consciousness only hid this Dionysiac world from them like a veil.

(Speirs 20-21)

On the other hand, we need not conjecture regarding the immense gap which separates the Dionysian Greek from the Dionysian barbarian. From all quarters of the ancient world—to say nothing here of the modern—from Rome to Babylon, we can point to the existence of Dionysian festivals, types which bear, at best, the same relation to the Greek festivals which the bearded satyr, who borrowed his name and attributes from the goat, bears to Dionysus himself. In nearly every case these festivals centered in extravagant sexual licentiousness, whose waves overwhelmed all family life and its venerable traditions; the most savage natural instincts were unleashed, including even that horrible mixture of sensuality and cruelty which has always seemed to me to be the real “witches’ brew.” For some time, however, the Greeks were apparently perfectly insulated and guarded against the feverish excitements of these festivals, though knowledge of them must have come to Greece on all the routes of land and sea; for the figure of Apollo, rising full of pride, held out the Gorgon’s head to this grotesquely uncouth Dionysian power—and really could not have countered any more dangerous force. It is in Doric art that this majestically rejecting attitude of Apollo is immortalized.

The opposition between Apollo and Dionysus became more hazardous and even impossible, when similar impulses finally burst forth from the deepest roots of the Hellenic nature and made a path for themselves: the Delphic god, by a seasonably effected reconciliation, now contented himself with taking the destructive weapons from the hands of his powerful antagonist. This reconciliation is the most important moment in the history of the Greek cult: wherever we turn we note the revolutions resulting from this event. The two antagonists were reconciled; the boundary lines to be observed henceforth by each were sharply defined, and there was to be a periodical exchange of gifts of esteem. At bottom, however, the chasm was not bridged over. But if we observe how, under the pressure of this treaty of peace, the Dionysian power revealed itself, we shall now recognize in the Dionysian orgies of the Greeks, as compared with the Babylonian Sacaea with their reversion of [39|40] man to the tiger and the ape, the significance of festivals of world redemption and days of transfiguration. It is with them that nature for the first time attains her artistic jubilee; it is with them that the destruction of the principium individuationis for the first time becomes an artistic phenomenon.

The horrible “witches’ brew” of sensuality and cruelty becomes ineffective; only the curious blending and duality in the emotions of the Dionysian revelers remind us—as medicines remind us of deadly poisons—of the phenomenon that pain begets joy, that ecstasy may wring sounds of agony from us. At the very climax of joy there sounds a cry of horror or a yearning lamentation for an irretrievable loss. In these Greek festivals, nature seems to reveal a sentimental trait; it is as if she were heaving a sigh at her dismenberment into individuals. The song and pantomime of such dually-minded revelers was something new and unheard-of in the Homeric-Greek world; and the Dionysian music in particular excited awe and terror. If music, as it would seem, had been known previously as an Apollinian art, it was so, strictly speaking, only as the wave beat of rhythm, whose formative power was developed for the representation of Apollinian states. The music of Apollo was Doric architectonics in tones, but in tones that were merely suggestive, such as those of the cithara. The very element which forms the essence of Dionysian music (and hence of music in general) is carefully excluded as un-Apollinian—namely, the emotional power of the tone, the uniform flow of the melody, and the utterly incomparable world of harmony. In the Dionysian dithyramb man is incited to the greatest exaltation of all his symbolic faculties; something never before experienced struggles for utterance—the annihilation of the veil of māyā, oneness as the soul of the race and of nature itself. The essence of nature is now to be expressed symbolically; we need a new world of symbols; and the entire symbolism of the body is called into play, not the mere symbolism of the lips, face, and speech but the whole pantomime of dancing, forcing every member into rhythmic movement. Then the other symbolic powers suddenly press forward, particularly those of music, in rhythmics, dynamics, and harmony. To grasp this collective release[40|41] of all the symbolic powers, man must have already attained that height of self-abnegation which seeks to express itself symbolically through all these powers—and so the dithyrambic votary of Dionysus is understood only by his peers. With what astonishment must the Apollinian Greek have beheld him! With an astonishment that was all the greater the more it was mingled with the shuddering suspicion that all this was actually not so very alien to him after all, in fact, that it was only his Apollinian consciousness which, like a veil, hid this Dionysian world from his vision.

On the other hand, we should not have to speak conjecturally, if asked to disclose the immense gap which separated the Dionysian Greek from the Dionysian barbarian. From all quarters of the Ancient World—to say nothing of the modern—from Rome as far as Babylon, we can [29|30] prove the existence of Dionysian festivals, the type of which bears, at best, the same relation to the Greek festivals as the bearded satyr, who borrowed his name and attributes from the goat, does to Dionysus himself. In nearly every instance the centre of these festivals lay in extravagant sexual licentiousness, the waves of which overwhelmed all family life and its venerable traditions; the very wildest beasts of nature were let loose here, including that detestable mixture of lust and cruelty which has always seemed to me the genuine “witches’ draught.” For some time, however, it would seem that the Greeks were perfectly secure and guarded against the feverish agitations of these festivals (—the knowledge of which entered Greece by all the channels of land and sea) by the figure of Apollo himself rising here in full pride, who could not have held out the Gorgon’s head to a more dangerous power than this grotesquely uncouth Dionysian. It is in Doric art that this majestically-rejecting attitude of Apollo perpetuated itself. This opposition became more precarious and even impossible, when, from out of the deepest root of the Hellenic nature, similar impulses finally broke forth and made way for themselves: the Delphic god, by a seasonably effected reconciliation, was now contented with taking the destructive arms from the hands of his powerful antagonist. This reconciliation marks the most important moment in the history of the Greek cult: wherever we turn our eyes we may observe the revolutions resulting from this event. It was the reconciliation of two antagonists, [30|31] with the sharp demarcation of the boundary-lines to be thenceforth observed by each, and with periodical transmission of testimonials;—in reality, the chasm was not bridged over. But if we observe how, under the pressure of this conclusion of peace, the Dionysian power manifested itself, we shall now recognise in the Dionysian orgies of the Greeks, as compared with the Babylonian Sacæa and their retrogression of man to the tiger and the ape, the significance of festivals of world-redemption and days of transfiguration. Not till then does nature attain her artistic jubilee; not till then does the rupture of the principium individuationis become an artistic phenomenon. That horrible “witches’ draught” of sensuality and cruelty was here powerless: only the curious blending and duality in the emotions of the Dionysian revellers reminds one of it—just as medicines remind one of deadly poisons,—that phenomenon, to wit, that pains beget joy, that jubilation wrings painful sounds out of the breast. From the highest joy sounds the cry of horror or the yearning wail over an irretrievable loss. In these Greek festivals a sentimental trait, as it were, breaks forth from nature, as if she must sigh over her dismemberment into individuals. The song and pantomime of such dually-minded revellers was something new and unheard-of in the Homeric-Grecian world; and the Dionysian music in particular excited awe and horror. If music, as it would seem, was previously known as an Apollonian art, it was, strictly speaking, only as the wave-beat of rhythm, the formative power of [31|32] which was developed to the representation of Apollonian conditions. The music of Apollo was Doric architectonics in tones, but in merely suggested tones, such as those of the cithara. The very element which forms the essence of Dionysian music (and hence of music in general) is carefully excluded as un-Apollonian; namely, the thrilling power of the tone, the uniform stream of the melos, and the thoroughly incomparable world of harmony. In the Dionysian dithyramb man is incited to the highest exaltation of all his symbolic faculties; something never before experienced struggles for utterance—the annihilation of the veil of Mâyâ, Oneness as genius of the race, ay, of nature. The essence of nature is now to be expressed symbolically; a new world of symbols is required; for once the entire symbolism of the body, not only the symbolism of the lips, face, and speech, but the whole pantomime of dancing which sets all the members into rhythmical motion. Thereupon the other symbolic powers, those of music, in rhythmics, dynamics, and harmony, suddenly become impetuous. To comprehend this collective discharge of all the symbolic powers, a man must have already attained that height of self-abnegation, which wills to express itself symbolically through these powers: the Dithyrambic votary of Dionysus is therefore understood only by those like himself! With what astonishment must the Apollonian Greek have beheld him! With an astonishment, which was all the greater the more it was mingled with the shuddering suspicion that all this was in [32|33] reality not so very foreign to him, yea, that, like unto a veil, his Apollonian consciousness only hid this Dionysian world from his view.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1999. The Birth of Tragedy. In The Birth of Tragedy and Other Writings, edited by Raymond Geuss and Ronald Speirs, English translation by Ronald Speirs, pp.1-116. Cambridge: Cambridge University.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1968. The Birth of Tragedy. In Basic Writings of Nietzsche, edited by Walter Kaufmann, English translation by Walter Kaufmann, pp.3-178. New York: Modern Library.

Sophocles. 1987. Oedipus the King. In The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces (Fifth Continental Edition), edited by Maynard Mack et al, English translation by Robert Fagles. New York and London: Norton.

[The following is summary. Bracketed commentary and boldface in quotations are my own additions. Paragraph enumerations are my own, but they follow the paragraph divisions of the German text. Proofreading is incomplete, so you will encounter typos and other distracting and problematic errors, including such things as inaccurate page citations for example. So please trust the original sources over my summarization and citation. Notes on Deleuze’s commentary is given in this shade of red.]

Summary of

Friedrich Nietzsche

Die Geburt der Tragödie

The Birth of Tragedy

L’origine de la tragédie

Section

1

[On the Apolline/Dionysiac distinction and on the primordial unity between humans and between them and nature.]

Brief summary:

There is a primordial unity where all things and people are joined together without sharp distinctions separating them. And there are two main tendencies in Ancient Greek art:

{1} The Apolline. It is associated with image- or sculpture-based art and with poetry. To Apollo belongs the world of dream and semblance. It is a source of intelligibility and pleasure, even when the images are dark and gloomy. In this realm of semblance, things are intelligible and have forms that on the one hand allow for different things to be distinguished from one another and that on the other hand allow human individuals to distinguish themselves from both other human individuals and from the world as a whole. Thus even though the Apolline involves a realm of semblance, appearance, and illusion, one never enters into a pathological [delirious] state where one confuses dream and reality and blur together the things in the world, including oneself and others. One thus checks one’s “wilder impulses” and instead has the “wise calm” of Apollo, while holding on to the principle of individuation (principium individuationis) that allows intelligible distinctions to hold. [Thus the Apolline tendency in artistic practice breaks one from the primordial unity.]

{2} The Dionysiac. It is associated with the imageless art of music. To Dionysus belongs the realm Bacchic intoxication and revelry, where the principle of individuation does not hold. Here one loses one’s sense of distinction between the things in the world, including between oneself and the world and between oneself and other people. Yet, unlike the danger of delirium under the Apolline mode, this state of intoxication is healthy and not at all pathological. Thus the Dionysiac tendency in artistic practice renews the primordial unity.

These two Ancient Greek artistic modes are oppositional, and through their intense competition they eventually gave rise to Attic tragedy, which involves an equal measure of both factors

{2} Dionysiac intoxication (l’ivresse bachique) [which renews the primitive unity] is an affect that increases the power to exist, and it can be understood as the will to power. (Deleuze Cours 1983–12–13.Session 49.2of “Cinéma / Vérité et temps – La puissance du faux”; Cours 1984–11–20.Session 70.2of “Cinéma / Pensée”)

Summary

1.1

[There are two main tendencies in Ancient Greek art: The Apolline, which is associated with image or sculpture based art, and the Dionysiac, which is associated with the imageless art of music. The two factors are oppositional, and through their competition they eventually gave rise to Attic tragedy, which involves an equal measure of both factors.]

The “continuous evolution of art is bound up with the duality of the Apolline and the Dionysiac” (14). For the Ancient Greeks, Apollo and Dionysus were “[t]heir two dieties of art” (14). There is an “an enormous opposition, both in origin and goals” between the two art Gods. To Apollo we associate the “art of the image-maker or sculptor (Bildner)” and to Dionysus “the imageless art of music” (14). Nietzsche characterizes these two artistic tendencies as drives (Tribe) that are oppositional and competing in a fruitful way, and through the Hellenic “Will” their competition produces Attic tragedy, which has equal measures of both factors: “These two very different drives (Triebe) exist side by side, mostly in open conflict, stimulating and provoking (reizen) one another to give birth to ever-new, more vigorous offspring in whom they perpetuate the conflict inherent in the opposition between them, an opposition only apparently bridged by the common term ‘art’ – until eventually, by a metaphysical miracle of the Hellenic ‘Will’, they appear paired and, in this pairing, finally engender a work of art which is Dionysiac and Apolline in equal measure: Attic tragedy” (Speirs 14).

We shall have gained much for the science of aesthetics when we have come to realize, not just through logical insight but also with the certainty of something directly apprehended (Anschauung), that the continuous evolution of art is bound up with the duality of the Apolline and the Dionysiac in much the same way as reproduction depends on there being two sexes which co-exist in a state of perpetual conflict interrupted only occasionally by periods of reconciliation. We have borrowed these names from the Greeks who reveal the profound mysteries of their view of art to those with insight, not in concepts, admittedly, but through the penetratingly vivid figures of their gods. Their two deities of art, Apollo and Dionysos, provide the starting-point for our recognition that there exists in the world of the Greeks an enormous opposition, both in origin and goals, between the Apolline art of the image-maker or sculptor (Bildner) and the imageless art of music, which is that of Dionysos. These two very different drives (Triebe) exist side by side, mostly in open conflict, stimulating and provoking (reizen) one another to give birth to ever-new, more vigorous offspring in whom they perpetuate the conflict inherent in the opposition between them, an opposition only apparently bridged by the common term ‘art’ – until eventually, by a metaphysical miracle of the Hellenic ‘Will’, they appear paired and, in this pairing, finally engender a work of art which is Dionysiac and Apolline in equal measure: Attic tragedy.

(Speirs 14)

We shall have gained much for the science of aesthetics, once we perceive not merely by logical inference, but with the immediate certainty of vision, that the continuous development of art is bound up with the Apollinian and Dionysian duality—just as procreation depends on the duality of the sexes, involving perpetual strife with only periodically intervening reconciliations. The terms Dionysian and Apollinian we borrow from the Greeks, who disclose to the discerning mind the profound mysteries of their view of art, not, to be sure, in concepts, but in the intensely clear figures of their gods. Through Apollo and Dionysus, the two art deities of the Greeks, we come to recognize that in the Greek world there existed a tremendous opposition, in origin and aims, between the Apollinian art of sculpture, and the nonimagistic, Dionysian art of music. These two different tendencies run parallel to each other, for the most part openly at variance; and they continually incite each other to new and more powerful births, which perpetuate an antagonism, only superficially reconciled by the common term “art”; till eventually, by a metaphysical miracle of the Hellenic “will,” they appear coupled with each other, and through this coupling ultimately generate an equally Dionysian and Apollinian form of art—Attic tragedy.

We shall have gained much for the science of æsthetics, when once we have perceived not only by logical inference, but by the immediate certainty of intuition, that the continuous development of art is bound up with the duplexity of the Apollonian and the Dionysian: in like manner as procreation is dependent on the duality of the sexes, involving perpetual conflicts with only periodically intervening reconciliations. These names we borrow from the Greeks, who disclose to the intelligent observer the profound mysteries of their view of art, not indeed in concepts, but in the impressively clear figures of their world of deities. It is in connection with Apollo and Dionysus, the two art-deities of the Greeks, that we learn that there existed in the Grecian world a wide antithesis, in origin and aims, between the art of the shaper, the Apollonian, and the non-plastic art of music, that of Dionysus: both these so heterogeneous tendencies run parallel to each other, for the most part openly at variance, and continually inciting each other to new and more powerful births, to perpetuate in | them the strife of this antithesis, which is but seemingly bridged over by their mutual term “Art”; till at last, by a metaphysical miracle of the Hellenic will, they appear paired with each other, and through this pairing eventually generate the equally Dionysian and Apollonian art-work of Attic tragedy.

[To Apollo belongs the world of dream, and to Dionysus, intoxication. In dream the artist and poet view the form of the divine.]

Nietzsche analyzes these two tendencies in Greek art by considering them in terms of their respective worlds, which are characterized by physiological states: to Apollo belongs the world of dream, and to Dionysus, intoxication. [“the separate art-worlds of dream and intoxication | (Rausch)”; “les mondes esthétiques différents du rêve et de l’ivresse”. Deleuze’s commentary. Deleuze speaks of Nietzsche’s notion of Bacchic intoxication as affect that increases the power to exist, and it can be understood as the will to power:

] [The next point I do not firmly grasp, so please consult the texts below. It seems the idea is that in dreams, artists and poets gain certain kinds of inspiration, including a view of the forms of the gods, with their well-proportioned bodies.]

In order to gain a closer understanding of these two drives, let us think of them in the first place as the separate art-worlds of dream and intoxication | (Rausch). Between these two physiological phenomena an opposition can be observed which corresponds to that between the Apolline and the Dionysiac. As Lucretius envisages it, it was in dream that the magnificent figures of the gods first appeared before the souls of men; in dream the great image-maker saw the delightfully proportioned bodies of superhuman beings; and the Hellenic poet, if asked about the secrets of poetic procreation, would likewise have reminded us of dream and would have given an account much like that given by Hans Sachs in the Meistersinger:

My friend, it is the poet's task

To mark his dreams, their meaning ask.

Trust me, the truest phantom man doth know

Hath meaning only dreams may show:

The arts of verse and poetry

Tell nought but dreaming's prophecy.

(Speirs 14-15)

In order to grasp these two tendencies, let us first conceive of them as the separate art worlds of dreams and intoxication. These physiological phenomena present a contrast analogous to that existing between the Apollinian and the Dionysian. It was in dreams, says Lucretius, that the glorious divine figures first appeared to the souls of men; in dreams the great shaper beheld the splendid bodies of superhuman beings; and the Hellenic poet, if questioned about the mysteries of poetic inspiration, would likewise have suggested | dreams and he might have given an explanation like that of Hans Sachs in the Meistersinger:

In order to bring these two tendencies within closer range, let us conceive them first of all as the separate art-worlds of dreamland and drunkenness; between which physiological phenomena a contrast may be observed analogous to that existing between the Apollonian and the Dionysian. In dreams, according to the conception of Lucretius, the glorious divine figures first appeared to the souls of men, in dreams the great shaper beheld the charming corporeal structure of superhuman beings, and the Hellenic poet, if consulted on the mysteries of poetic inspiration, would likewise have suggested dreams and would have offered an explanation resembling that of Hans Sachs in the Meistersingers:—

[The world of dream is a world of semblance. It is a source of intelligibility and pleasure, even though the images may even be dark and gloomy.]

When in our state of dream we are creating our dream world, we are fully being an artist. And the semblance of dream is “the precondition of all the arts of image-making, including, as we shall see, an important half of poetry”. Yet even when “this dream-reality is most alive, we nevertheless retain a pervasive sense that it is semblance”. Some philosophers have even come to regard our own world as a semblance of some deeper reality: “Philosophical natures even have a presentiment that hidden beneath the reality in which we live and have our being there also lies a second, quite different reality; in other words, this reality too is a semblance”. Schopenhauer had a similar sort of idea. Artists use the reality of dream as a source of pleasure and they use dream images “to interpret life”. But along with pleasant images that give the artist “this feeling of complete intelligibility”, they also see “passing before him things which are grave, gloomy, sad, dark, sudden blocks, teasings of chance, anxious expectations”. But even these darker images are understood to be semblances.

Every human being is fully an artist when creating the worlds of dream, and the lovely semblance of dream is the precondition of all the arts of image-making, including, as we shall see, an important half of poetry. We take pleasure in dreaming, understanding its figures without mediation; all forms speak to us; nothing is indifferent or unnecessary. Yet even while this dream-reality is most alive, we nevertheless retain a pervasive sense that it is semblance; at least this is my experience, and I could adduce a good deal of evidence and the statements of poets to attest to the frequency, indeed normality, of my experience. Philosophical natures even have a presentiment that hidden beneath the reality in which we live and have our being there also lies a second, quite different reality; in other words, this reality too is a semblance. Indeed Schopenhauer actually states that the mark of a person's capacity for philosophy is the gift for feeling occasionally as if people and all things were mere phantoms or dream-images. A person with artistic sensibility relates to the reality of dream in the same way as a philosopher relates to the reality of existence: he attends to it closely and with pleasure, using these images to interpret life, and practising for life with the help of these events. Not that it is only the pleasant and friendly images which give him this feeling of complete intelligibility; he also sees passing before him things which are grave, gloomy, sad, dark, sudden blocks, teasings of chance, anxious | expectations, in short the entire ‘Divine Comedy’ of life, including the Inferno, but not like some mere shadow-play - for he, too, lives in these scenes and shares in the suffering - and yet never without that fleeting sense of its character as semblance. Perhaps others will recall, as I do, shouting out, sometimes successfully, words of encouragement in the midst of the perils and terrors of a dream: ‘It is a dream! I will dream on!’ I have even heard of people who were capable of continuing the causality of one and the same dream through three and more successive nights. All of these facts are clear evidence that our innermost being, the deep ground (Untergrund) common to all our lives, experiences the state of dreaming with profound pleasure (Lust) and joyous necessity.

(Speirs 15-16)

The beautiful illusion of the dream worlds, in the creation of which every man is truly an artist, is the prerequisite of all plastic art, and, as we shall see, of an important part of poetry also. In our dreams we delight in the immediate understanding of figures; all forms speak to us; there is nothing unimportant or superfluous. But even when this dream reality is most intense, we still have, glimmering through it, the sensation that it is mere appearance: at least this is my experience, and for its frequency—indeed, normality—I could adduce many proofs, including the sayings of the poets.

Philosophical men even have a presentiment that the reality in which we live and have our being is also mere appearance, and that another, quite different reality lies beneath it. Schopenhauer actually indicates as the criterion of philosophical ability the occasional ability to view men and things as mere phantoms or dream images. Thus the aesthetically sensitive man stands in the same relation to the reality of dreams as the philosopher does to the reality of existence; he is a close and willing observer, for these images afford him an interpretation of life, and by reflecting on these processes he trains himself for life.

It is not only the agreeable and friendly images that he experiences as something universally intelligible: the serious, the trou-| bled, the sad, the gloomy, the sudden restraints, the tricks of accident, anxious expectations, in short, the whole divine comedy of life, including the inferno, also pass before him, not like mere shadows on a wall—for he lives and suffers with | these scenes—and yet not without that fleeting sensation of illusion. And perhaps many will, like myself, recall how amid the dangers and terrors of dreams they have occasionally said to themselves in self-encouragement, and not without success: “It is a dream! I will dream on!” I have likewise heard of people who were able to continue one and the same dream for three and even more successive nights—facts which indicate clearly how our innermost being, our common ground, experiences dreams with profound delight and a joyous necessity.

The beauteous appearance of the dream-worlds, in the production of which every man is a perfect artist, is the presupposition of all plastic art, and in fact, as we shall see, of an important half of poetry also. We take delight in the immediate apprehension of form; all forms speak to us; there is nothing indifferent, nothing superfluous. But, together with the highest life of this dream-reality we also have, glimmering through it, the sensation of its appearance: such at least is my experience, as to the frequency, ay, normality of which I could adduce many proofs, as also the sayings of the poets. Indeed, the man of philosophic turn has a foreboding that underneath this reality in which we live and have our being, another and altogether different reality lies concealed, and that therefore it is also an appearance; and Schopenhauer actually designates the gift of occasionally regarding men and things as mere phantoms and dream-pictures as the criterion of philosophical ability. Accordingly, the man susceptible to art stands in the same relation to the reality of dreams as the philosopher to the reality of existence; he is a close and willing observer, for from these pictures he reads the meaning of life, and by these processes he trains himself for life. And it is perhaps not only the agreeable and friendly pictures that he realises in himself with such perfect understanding: the earnest, the troubled, the dreary, the gloomy, the sudden checks, the tricks of fortune, the uneasy presentiments, in short, the whole "Divine Comedy" of life, and the Inferno, also pass before him, not merely like | pictures on the wall—for he too lives and suffers in these scenes,—and yet not without that fleeting sensation of appearance. And perhaps many a one will, like myself, recollect having sometimes called out cheeringly and not without success amid the dangers and terrors of dream-life: "It is a dream! I will dream on!" I have likewise been told of persons capable of continuing the causality of one and the same dream for three and even more successive nights: all of which facts clearly testify that our innermost being, the common substratum of all of us, experiences our dreams with deep joy and cheerful acquiescence.

[The Apolline is a matter of dream, illusion, and appearance. This opens the possibility that one under its influence descends into a state of madness or delirium where one gives into wilder impulses and is unable to discern dream from reality or even things from each other. Yet, as part of the Apolline artistic influence, one retains a wise calm that prevents this pathology.]

Apollo, “the god of all image-making energies,” is “also the god of prophecy”. And, Apollo is the god of light and thus of semblance and fantasy. [I do not know German, unfortunately, but we might note a terminological overlap between illumination and semblance. Apollo is “the luminous one” (der Scheinende), and he is associated with the realm of semblance (Schein). Schein is “semblance” in Speirs, “illusion” in Kaufmann, “appearance” in Haussmann, and “l’apparence” in Marnold and Morland.] [I may not follow the next point, so please consult the quotations below. The idea might be the following. So far we have associated Apollo with dream. But we can mistake dreams for reality, especially in states of delirium. Nietzsche now says that the Apolline contains a certain limiting structure that prevents the artist from confusing dream and reality, and to also check “wilder impulses” and to instead have the “wise calm” of Apollo. This calm is somehow related to “the consecrated quality of lovely semblance” and to what Schopenhauer says about humans who are trapped in the veil of maya. Here in a stormy sea, the boatman sits calmly. He is supported by and trusts the principium individuationis. I am not sure what the idea is there, but I will guess it is the following. The realm of dream can become confused with reality, and it opens the possibility that one loses control over one’s mind, as it descends into a delirium or madness. In that state, perhaps, one’s own self or the things around oneself can lose their stable identities. But those under the Apolline artistic influence trust in the principle that distinguishes things formally from one another. But I get the sense that the principium individuationis here is also the factor that allows one to distinguish oneself from the surrounding world, as the next section will suggest. Let me quote for you now.]

The Greeks also expressed the joyous necessity of dream-experience in their Apollo: as the god of all image-making energies, Apollo is also the god of prophecy. According to the etymological root of his name, he is 'the luminous one' (der Scheinende), the god of light; as such, he also governs the lovely semblance produced by the inner world of fantasy. The higher truth, the perfection of these dream-states in contrast to the only partially intelligible reality of the daylight world, together with the profound consciousness of the helping and healing powers of nature in sleep and dream, is simultaneously the symbolic analogue of the ability to prophesy and indeed of all the arts through which life is made possible and worth living. But the image of Apollo must also contain that delicate line which the dream-image may not overstep if its effect is not to become pathological, so that, in the worst case, the semblance would deceive us as if it were crude reality; his image (Bild) must include that measured limitation (maßvolle Begrenzung), that freedom from wilder impulses, that wise calm of the image-making god. In accordance with his origin, his eye must be 'sunlike'; even when its gaze is angry and shows displeasure, it exhibits the consecrated quality of lovely semblance. Thus, in an eccentric sense, one could apply to Apollo what Schopenhauer says about human beings trapped in the veil of maya:

Just as the boatman sits in his small boat, trusting his frail craft in a stormy sea that is boundless in every direction, rising and falling with the howling, mountainous waves, so in the midst of a world full of suffering and misery the individual man | calmly sits, supported by and trusting in the principium individuationis [ . . . ]

(World as Will and Representation, I, p. 416)

Indeed one could say that Apollo is the most sublime expression of imperturbable trust in this principle and of the calm sitting-there of the person trapped within it; one might even describe Apollo as the magnificent divine image (Götterbild) of the principium individuationis, whose gestures and gaze speak to us of all the intense pleasure, wisdom and beauty of 'semblance'

(Speirs 16-17)

This joyous necessity of the dream experience has been embodied by the Greeks in their Apollo: Apollo, the god of all plastic energies, is at the same time the soothsaying god. He, who (as the etymology of the name indicates) is the “shining one,” the deity of light, is also ruler over the beautiful illusion of the inner world of fantasy. The higher truth, the perfection of these states in contrast to the incompletely intelligible everyday world, this deep consciousness of nature, healing and helping in sleep and dreams, is at the same time the symbolical analogue of the soothsaying faculty and of the arts generally, which make life possible and worth living. But we must also include in our image of Apollo that delicate boundary which the dream image must not overstep lest it have a pathological effect (in which case mere appearance would deceive us as if it were crude reality). We must keep in mind that measured restraint, that freedom from the wilder emotions, that calm of the sculptor god. His eye must be “sunlike,” as befits his origin; even when it is angry and distempered it is still hallowed by beautiful illusion. And so, in one sense, we might apply to Apollo the words of Schopenhauer when he speaks of the man wrapped in the veil of māyā (Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, I, p. 416): “Just as in a | stormy sea that, unbounded in all directions, raises and drops mountainous waves, howling, a sailor sits in a boat and trusts in his frail bark: so in the midst of a world of torments the individual human being sits quietly, supported by and trusting in the principium individuationis.” In fact, we might say of Apollo that in him the unshaken faith in this principium and the calm repose of the man wrapped up in it receive their most sublime expression; and we might call Apollo himself the glorious divine image of the principium individuationis, through whose gestures and eyes all the joy and wisdom of “illusion,” together with its beauty, speak to us.

This cheerful acquiescence in the dream-experience has likewise been embodied by the Greeks in their Apollo: for Apollo, as the god of all shaping energies, is also the soothsaying god. He, who (as the etymology of the name indicates) is the "shining one," the deity of light, also rules over the fair appearance of the inner world of fantasies. The higher truth, the perfection of these states in contrast to the only partially intelligible everyday world, ay, the deep consciousness of nature, healing and helping in sleep and dream, is at the same time the symbolical analogue of the faculty of soothsaying and, in general, of the arts, through which life is made possible and worth living. But also that delicate line, which the dream-picture must not overstep—lest it act pathologically (in which case appearance, being reality pure and simple, would impose upon us)—must not be wanting in the picture of Apollo: that measured limitation, that freedom | from the wilder emotions, that philosophical calmness of the sculptor-god. His eye must be "sunlike," according to his origin; even when it is angry and looks displeased, the sacredness of his beauteous appearance is still there. And so we might apply to Apollo, in an eccentric sense, what Schopenhauer says of the man wrapt in the veil of Mâyâ: Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, I. p. 416: "Just as in a stormy sea, unbounded in every direction, rising and falling with howling mountainous waves, a sailor sits in a boat and trusts in his frail barque: so in the midst of a world of sorrows the individual sits quietly supported by and trusting in his principium individuationis." Indeed, we might say of Apollo, that in him the unshaken faith in this principium and the quiet sitting of the man wrapt therein have received their sublimest expression; and we might even designate Apollo as the glorious divine image of the principium individuationis, from out of the gestures and looks of which all the joy and wisdom of "appearance," together with its beauty, speak to us.

[But the Dionysiac, under the Bacchic state of intoxication, in fact does involve this breakdown in one’s sense of distinction between the things of the world and between oneself and the world. This state of intoxication is healthy and not pathological.]

Nietzsche then says that in the above quoted part of World as Will and Representation, Schopenhauer also describes a profound state of horror that overcomes people “when they suddenly become confused and lose faith in the cognitive forms of the phenomenal world because the principle of sufficient reason, in one or other of its modes, appears to sustain an exception”. [I am not familiar with Schopenhauer’s text, so I do not know how the principle of sufficient reason is involved in the cognitive forms of the phenomenal world. I also do not know what it means for the principle of sufficient reason to sustain an exception. The idea here seems to be that on account of some cause, one loses the ability to draw distinctions between the things that appear in their world and between themselves and that world.] Along with this horror, one may also [on account of similar causes or reasons] experience “the blissful ecstasy which arises from the innermost ground of man, indeed of nature itself, whenever this breakdown of the principium individuationis occurs, we catch a glimpse of the essence of the Dionysiac, which is best conveyed by the analogy of intoxication”. [We saw that with the Apolline, one does not enter this state of loss of distinctions between things and between oneself and the world. But such a state in inherent to the Dionysiac influence.] “These Dionysiac stirrings, which, as they grow in intensity, cause subjectivity to vanish to the point of complete self-forgetting, awaken either under the influence of narcotic drink, of which all human beings and peoples who are close to the origin of things speak in their hymns, or at the approach of spring when the whole of nature is pervaded by lust for life”. This sort of Bacchic state was also seen later in the German Middle Ages. The Bacchic state is a vital and healthy one and not necessarily a matter of pathology.

In the same passage Schopenhauer has described for us the enormous horror which seizes people when they suddenly become confused and lose faith in the cognitive forms of the phenomenal world because the principle of sufficient reason, in one or other of its modes, appears to sustain an exception. If we add to this horror the blissful ecstasy which arises from the innermost ground of man, indeed of nature itself, whenever this breakdown of the principium individuationis occurs, we catch a glimpse of the essence of the Dionysiac, which is best conveyed by the analogy of intoxication. These Dionysiac stirrings, which, as they grow in intensity, cause subjectivity to vanish to the point of complete self-forgetting, awaken either under the influence of narcotic drink, of which all human beings and peoples who are close to the origin of things speak in their hymns, or at the approach of spring when the whole of nature is pervaded by lust for life. In the German Middle Ages, too, ever-growing throngs roamed from place to place, impelled by the same Dionysiac power, singing and dancing as they went; in these St John's and St Vitus' dancers we recognize the Bacchic choruses of the Greeks, with their pre-history in Asia Minor, extending to Babylon and the orgiastic Sacaea. There are those who, | whether from lack of experience or from dullness of spirit, turn away in scorn or pity from such phenomena, regarding them as 'popular diseases' while believing in their own good health; of course, these poor creatures have not the slightest inkling of how spectral and deathly pale their 'health' seems when the glowing life of Dionysiac enthusiasts storms past them.

(Speirs 17-18)

In the same work Schopenhauer has depicted for us the tremendous terror which seizes man when he is suddenly dumfounded by the cognitive form of phenomena because the principle of sufficient reason, in some one of its manifestations, seems to suffer an exception. If we add to this terror the blissful ecstasy that wells from the innermost depths of man, indeed of nature, at this collapse of the principium individuationis, we steal a glimpse into the nature of the Dionysian, which is brought home to us most intimately by the analogy of intoxication.

Either under the influence of the narcotic draught, of which the songs of all primitive men and peoples speak, or with the potent coming of spring that penetrates all nature with joy, these Dionysian emotions awake, and as they grow in intensity everything subjective vanishes into complete self-forgetfulness. In the German Middle Ages, too, singing and dancing crowds, ever increasing in number, whirled themselves from place to place under this same Dionysian impulse. In these dancers of St. John and St. Vitus, we rediscover the Bacchic choruses of the Greeks, with their prehistory in Asia Minor, as far back as Babylon and the orgiastic Sacaea. There are some who, from obtuseness or lack of experience, | turn away from such phenomena as from “folk-diseases,” with contempt or pity born of the consciousness of their own “healthy-mindedness.” But of course such poor wretches have no idea how corpselike and ghostly their so-called “healthy-mindedness” looks when the glowing life of the Dionysian revelers roars past them.

In the same work Schopenhauer has described to us the stupendous awe which seizes upon man, when of a sudden he is at a loss to account for the cognitive forms of a phenomenon, in that the principle of reason, in some one of its manifestations, seems to admit of an exception. Add to this awe the blissful ecstasy which rises from the | innermost depths of man, ay, of nature, at this same collapse of the principium individuationis, and we shall gain an insight into the being of the Dionysian, which is brought within closest ken perhaps by the analogy of drunkenness. It is either under the influence of the narcotic draught, of which the hymns of all primitive men and peoples tell us, or by the powerful approach of spring penetrating all nature with joy, that those Dionysian emotions awake, in the augmentation of which the subjective vanishes to complete self-forgetfulness. So also in the German Middle Ages singing and dancing crowds, ever increasing in number, were borne from place to place under this same Dionysian power. In these St. John's and St. Vitus's dancers we again perceive the Bacchic choruses of the Greeks, with their previous history in Asia Minor, as far back as Babylon and the orgiastic Sacæa. There are some, who, from lack of experience or obtuseness, will turn away from such phenomena as "folk-diseases" with a smile of contempt or pity prompted by the consciousness of their own health: of course, the poor wretches do not divine what a cadaverous-looking and ghastly aspect this very "health" of theirs presents when the glowing life of the Dionysian revellers rushes past them.

[The primordial unity between humans and between humans and nature is disrupted in Dionysiac celebration.]

[There apparently was a primordial bond between humans that is disrupted by the principle of individuation, because the Dionysiac renews that bond. And as well, there was apparently a primordial bond between humans and nature, because the Dionysiac renews that as well. Many subjugating bonds between humans are broken, as are any other bounds of distinction between people, by means of the Bacchic revelry.] [Deleuze commentary. Deleuze notes the opposition that Nietzsche sets up “between primitive unity and individuation” / “de l’unité primitive et de l’individuation” (1962: 11 / 2006: 13).]

Not only is the bond between human beings renewed by the magic of the Dionysiac, but nature, alienated, inimical, or subjugated, celebrates once more her festival of reconciliation with her lost son, humankind. Freely the earth offers up her gifts, and the beasts of prey from mountain and desert approach in peace. The chariot of Dionysos is laden with flowers and wreaths; beneath its yoke stride panther and tiger. If one were to transform Beethoven's jubilant 'Hymn to Joy' into a painting and place no constraints on one's imagination as the millions sink into the dust, shivering in awe, then one could begin to approach the Dionysiac. Now the slave is a freeman, now all the rigid, hostile barriers, which necessity, caprice, or 'impudent fashion' have established between human beings, break asunder. Now, hearing this gospel of universal harmony, each person feels himself to be not simply united, reconciled or merged with his neighbour, but quite literally one with him, as if the veil of maya had been torn apart, so that mere shreds of it flutter before the mysterious primordial unity (das Ur-Eine). Singing and dancing, man expresses his sense of belonging to a higher community; he has forgotten how to walk and talk and is on the brink of flying and dancing, up and away into the air above. His gestures speak of his enchantment. Just as the animals now talk and the earth gives milk and honey, there now sounds out from within man something supernatural: he feels himself to be a god, he himself now moves in such ecstasy and sublimity as once he saw the gods move in his dreams. Man is no longer an artist, he has become a work of art: all nature's artistic power reveals itself here, amidst shivers of intoxication, to the highest, most blissful satisfaction of the primordial unity. Here man, the noblest clay, the most precious marble, is kneaded and carved and, to the accompaniment of the chisel-blows of the Dionysiac world-artist, the call of the Eleusinian | Mysteries rings out: 'Fall ye to the ground, ye millions? Feelst thou thy Creator, world? '

(Speirs 18-19)

Under the charm of the Dionysian not only is the union between man and man reaffirmed, but nature which has become alienated, hostile, or subjugated, celebrates once more her reconciliation with her lost son,25 man. Freely, earth proffers her gifts, and peacefully the beasts of prey of the rocks and desert approach. The chariot of Dionysus is covered with flowers and garlands; panthers and tigers walk under its yoke. Transform Beethoven’s “Hymn to Joy” into a painting; let your imagination conceive the multitudes bowing to the dust, awestruck—then you will approach the Dionysian. Now the slave is a free man; now all the rigid, hostile barriers that necessity, caprice, or “impudent convention”26 have fixed between man and man are broken. Now, with the gospel of universal harmony, each one feels himself not only united, reconciled, and fused with his neighbor, but as one with him, as if the veil of māyā had been torn aside and were now merely fluttering in tatters before the mysterious primordial unity.

In song and in dance man expresses himself as a member of a higher community; he has forgotten how to walk and speak and is on the way toward flying into the air, dancing. His very gestures express enchantment. Just as the animals now talk, and the earth yields milk and honey, supernatural sounds emanate from him, too: he feels himself a god, he himself now walks about enchanted, in ecstasy, like the gods he saw walking in his dreams. He is no longer an artist, he has become a work of art: in these paroxysms of intoxication the artistic power of all nature reveals itself to the highest gratification of the primordial unity. The noblest clay, the most costly marble, man, is here kneaded and cut, and to the sound of the chisel strokes of the Dionysian world-artist rings out the cry | of the Eleusinian mysteries: “Do you prostrate yourselves, millions? Do you sense your Maker, world?”

Under the charm of the Dionysian not only is the covenant between man and man again established, but also estranged, hostile or subjugated nature again celebrates her reconciliation with her lost son, man. Of her own accord earth proffers her gifts, and peacefully the beasts of| prey approach from the desert and the rocks. The chariot of Dionysus is bedecked with flowers and garlands: panthers and tigers pass beneath his yoke. Change Beethoven's "jubilee-song" into a painting, and, if your imagination be equal to the occasion when the awestruck millions sink into the dust, you will then be able to approach the Dionysian. Now is the slave a free man, now all the stubborn, hostile barriers, which necessity, caprice, or "shameless fashion" has set up between man and man, are broken down. Now, at the evangel of cosmic harmony, each one feels himself not only united, reconciled, blended with his neighbour, but as one with him, as if the veil of Mâyâ has been torn and were now merely fluttering in tatters before the mysterious Primordial Unity. In song and in dance man exhibits himself as a member of a higher community, he has forgotten how to walk and speak, and is on the point of taking a dancing flight into the air. His gestures bespeak enchantment. Even as the animals now talk, and as the earth yields milk and honey, so also something super-natural sounds forth from him: he feels himself a god, he himself now walks about enchanted and elated even as the gods whom he saw walking about in his dreams. Man is no longer an artist, he has become a work of art: the artistic power of all nature here reveals itself in the tremors of drunkenness to the highest gratification of the Primordial Unity. The noblest clay, the costliest marble, namely man, is here kneaded and cut, and the chisel strokes of | the Dionysian world-artist are accompanied with the cry of the Eleusinian mysteries: "Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen? Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?"

Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1999. The Birth of Tragedy. In The Birth of Tragedy and Other Writings, edited by Raymond Geuss and Ronald Speirs, English translation by Ronald Speirs, pp.1-116. Cambridge: Cambridge University.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1968. The Birth of Tragedy. In Basic Writings of Nietzsche, edited by Walter Kaufmann, English translation by Walter Kaufmann, pp.3-178. New York: Modern Library.